Twenty-One

by D. Victoria BonAnno

  “I have the statement for the buyers,” he said, handing a copy to Konri. Abigail waited, then rose with a sigh to receive hers. She took it from his hand too abruptly to be consistent with her calm exterior. Demetrius watched her read it, watched her fingers tighten around the sheet of paper the further down she read.

  “The execution of a dangerous slave, while regrettable, is necessary, as it only takes one bad seed to spoil the crop.” Her eyes were hard as marbles when she looked up again. “Ash was the dangerous slave? Are you serious? Who stole my phone, Demetrius? Ash was tied to a cross, completely helpless, and that little bitch was under the table with my cell phone. How could you possibly call Ash dangerous when-”

  “Ash was the true danger in this incident,” said Demetrius, nearly quoting the statement. “He has been dealt with.”

  Abigail’s eyes went wide. “Your little favourite was right next to me when Ash spilled the wine,” she snapped. “She took advantage of the situation. She took my phone and tried to make a call while everyone watched Ash’s punishment. How can you say Ash was a part of it?”

  Demetrius almost sighed. “Come on, Abigail. You’re smarter than that. Do you think Ash’s wine spill was a coincidence?”

  Abigail opened her mouth to speak again, but he shut her down.

  “I saw Ash preparing you for your fetish ball in Detroit,” he said. “He was rude when I first saw him, but he wasn’t clumsy. Did you ever know him to make such an error as throwing an entire glass of wine into the lap of his Mistress?”

  Abigail’s grip on the statement was so tight that she nearly crushed it.

  “So what are you saying, exactly?” she sneered. “Are you saying that Ash spilled wine on me, stole my phone, and gave it to her? Even if he had done that, if your slave was so well broken, she wouldn’t have used the phone, but there she was, under the table.”

  “She didn’t make a call,” said Demetrius. “I know my slave. Twenty-One is fully broken. When I discovered her, Ash shouted her birth name. He had to have coaxed it out of her somehow, and manipulated her into taking the phone.”

  Demetrius could tell Abigail was about to lose control of herself. He was too tired for an outburst of hers, his nerves too ragged. He looked to Konri, whom he knew he could count on to diffuse her.

  “They might have spoken while they performed for the buyers on the podium,” Konri said softly. “After the head race. Even if that isn’t the case, Ash was executed in front of the buyers. Demetrius is right to make him appear to have been a threat to the entire season.”

  Abigail shook her head, tossing her blonde curls to the side. She thrust the paper back into Demetrius’ hand.

  “So why isn’t she being punished? If you want to make Ash the dangerous one, fine, he’s already dead.” Demetrius noted a thickening in her voice, the tremble of unshed tears. “But if any other slave was found with a cell phone, you would put them down.” She squared her stance in front of him, folding her arms. “You’d never risk keeping a slave like that alive. But she’s your favourite, isn’t she? So she lives, doesn’t she?”

  Demetrius clenched his jaw to stave off the rush of rage that flared in his chest. He wanted nothing more than to strike the smug smirk off Abigail’s face. He knew that he had snapped in front of his entire staff, the slaves, and the buyers. If he struck out again, she and Konri would decide he wasn’t fit enough to run their operation, and eventually something would happen. Demetrius took a mental breath, forming the cold exterior he needed to survive.

  “Twenty-One is a fully broken slave who was manipulated by a dangerous rebel,” he said, taking a step toward Abigail so he was a hair too close for her comfort. “She has been beaten and isolated for holding onto the phone, but the true danger has passed with Ash’s death. Your failure to recognize that Ash was in a state of false compliance, however, is unacceptable, Abigail.”

  Abigail’s mouth hung open, but she could find no words to fling at him.

  “As for Twenty-One’s punishment,” he continued, “the most effective punishment for Twenty-One’s transgressions is to punish others in front of her. I have done so in the past with a slave she favours. Twenty-One is a slave who drives herself mad with guilt. Ash’s death is more than enough punishment for her.”

  Konri, as always, said nothing. He merely nodded, quietly assessing Abigail, who stood with her mouth still gaping, silent and dumbstruck.

  “I will release this statement to the buyers.” said Demetrius.

  He turned his back on his partners. Twenty-One’s bruised and broken body loomed large in his mind, beaten in rage rather than as some form of punishment. He would not lose control again. The threat had been extinguished. Now it was time to salvage Twenty-One’s reputation in the buyers’ eyes, and therefore their confidence in him. But first, he had to make sure he hadn’t caused any permanent damage to the little disaster.

  Chapter 35

  December 3, 2011

  “Quand il me prend dans ses bras, il me parle tout bas, je vois la vie en rose.”

  Chloe jumped at the sound of tapping on the cage and her body rebelled against the sudden motion, bruised and sore. The left side of her face felt swollen, and her stomach ached as if Demetrius’ knee were still there, bearing down on her solar plexus until breathing was impossible.

  Three’s heart-shaped face was a welcome sight.

  “Hi, there,” Chloe whispered. Her voice was hoarse. She didn’t know how long she had been in the cage, but she was weak with thirst. Three held up a bottle of water as if she could read her thoughts.

  “Thank you,” said Chloe.

  Three unlocked the cage and helped Chloe climb out. Every inch of her body ached. The glass slave had to help her stand, untwist the cap for her, and hand her the bottle. Chloe drank, and the moment the water hit her tongue, she knew she had been in the cage for a very long time. Flashes of memory, of being fed bottled water through the bars of the cage, came and faded. She pulled herself back from the water. If she drank too much too fast she would vomit, and something told her she wouldn’t be given more.

  Chloe slipped her arms around Three. She was so happy to see someone, to feel skin against hers. She had been certain that Demetrius was going to kill her. Three hugged her but pulled away quickly, pointing at the wall to indicate the hidden cameras they both knew were there. She started moving, inching Chloe forward as if she were teaching an infant to walk.

  “How long have I been up here?” Chloe asked.

  Three held up three fingers. Chloe sucked in a breath. Three days. She was surprised she could walk at all, even with Three’s help. It took them time to get down the stairs. Chloe thought of asking where they were going, but Three wouldn’t have answered her, and it didn’t matter anyway. She had ruined her only chance for escape. Now all she could hope for was to slip into the warm comfort of forgetfulness, to become Twenty-One again. But her father’s voice echoed in her ears, and she knew she didn’t want to forget again. She would behave. She would be Demetrius’ slave and serve him as best she could, but she would never again allow herself to forget her father’s voice or the name he had given her. For her captor, she was Twenty-One, but in her own thoughts, she never would be again. She didn’t care whether or not he would sense it in her. That one sliver of herself he could not have. Maybe he would allow it of her if she again became a Model Slave in every other way.

  Three led Chloe out of the study and into the great dining room. The table remained, cleared of the food. The podium was empty. A hollow pit grew in Chloe’s heart. Her legs buckled. For a moment all she could see was Jason, limp on the giant cross, his light hair matted with blood. Three held her up, patted her hand. Chloe met her eyes. She was so young. She couldn’t have been older than sixteen and she had been snatched from her home, stripped naked, and collared. Had Chloe acted differently at the dinner party, she could have saved this girl.

  “I’m so sorry,” Chloe whispered, blinking through tears. “I’m so sorry.”
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br />   Three’s eyes mirrored Chloe’s sorrow. She shook her head, took Chloe’s chin, and kissed her. Chloe returned the kiss, no longer appalled by a stranger’s lips. Three’s mouth was soft and sweet and unlike any kiss she’d had since she came to this place. It comforted her as much as it broke her heart.

  Three led her through a short hallway to a tall white door. Chloe had never been down this way. She felt as though she should be anxious, but she was too weak to summon any fear. Three knocked before ushering Chloe into a large bedroom with navy blue walls and hardwood floors. It was simple but refined with a four poster bed in the corner, a nightstand, dresser, and a large leather chaise. Konri stood at the dresser, organizing the contents of a medical bag on top of it.

  “Sit on the chaise,” he said without turning around. Chloe complied, settling onto the chaise, clutching Three’s hand.

  Konri approached her. Chloe fought not to back away from him. He poked at the cut on her eye and she flinched at the sting. Three gave her a reassuring squeeze.

  Konri examined her in unnerving silence, fingering every bruise. His touch was almost unbearable, so detached yet so invasive at the same time. Again she thought of her father, also a doctor, with his inviting smile and warm, comforting personality. Was Konri as cold and mechanical with his patients as he was with the slaves? He was the sort of doctor children had nightmares about.

  She endured his prodding and held onto Three’s hand like a lifeline. He poked her left side below her breast and she gasped, jerking away from him, which only made the pain worse. Konri grabbed her arm and pulled her back into place, his fingers rolling along the sore spot. Chloe clenched her jaw, fighting not to pull away again. Konri shook his head, the age lines in his face deepening into a pensive frown.

  “Getting sloppy,” he muttered to himself. Chloe swallowed back a lump that had formed in her throat. What did that mean? Was she badly injured?

  Konri’s bedroom door opened and a different sense of dread washed over Chloe. Abigail entered the room, looking more casual than she had at the dinner party in tight dark jeans, a thin lace camisole, and blazer. Even in everyday clothing, she mesmerized Chloe. She strutted toward Chloe, Three, and Konri with an air about her that demanded attention. Chloe looked down immediately. Her hands began to shake. All she could think of was Abigail on her knees, screaming in Konri’s arms.

  “Well, look who it is,” Abigail purred, her tone low and dangerous like the distant hum of a swarm of wasps. “Our little Model Slave, our paragon of perfect behaviour.”

  She stepped in front of Chloe, too close for Chloe’s comfort.

  “Leave, slave,” Abigail ordered Three. “I think we can handle her.”

  Chloe clutched Three’s hand when she tried to back away. The idea of being alone with the silent Konri and this woman terrified her.

  “Go,” Abigail said more firmly. The edge in her tone made Chloe drop Three’s hand immediately. She wouldn’t be the cause for harm to another slave again. Three retreated. Chloe’s heart sank as the door closed.

  “How is she?” Abigail asked.

  “Bruised ribs,” said Konri, again poking at her left side. “Everything else will heal in a week or so.”

  “Poor little thing,” Abigail sneered. She tipped Chloe’s chin up with her manicured nails. “Demetrius can be such a monster when he’s angry, can’t he?” Chloe looked at Abigail and found eyes of ice. “Well, I guess bruised ribs are better than a bullet in the brain, aren’t they?”

  Chloe swallowed, fighting tears. Abigail tightened her grip on her chin.

  “Answer me.”

  “Yes, Mistress,” Chloe whispered. She opened her mouth to say she was sorry and stopped mid-word. One look at Abigail’s face told her that sorry would do her no good. A spark of pure rage flashed in the Mistress’s eyes, as if she would strike Chloe, but it slipped into a smile as quickly as it had appeared. She patted the wounded side of Chloe’s face and let her hand drop.

  “He marked her face,” she said, folding her arms over her breasts. Chloe tried not to look at the curve of her cleavage, barely concealed by the thin camisole.

  “Yes,” said Konri.

  He retreated to the dresser and took something out of his medical bag. Abigail shook her head. She wouldn’t look away from Chloe, and Chloe didn’t know what to do. Abigail hadn’t instructed her to look down, but she knew staring a Mistress full in the face was forbidden. She focused on Abigail’s jeans, a focal point that was a safe distance between her face and the floor. Abigail did not seem to notice her struggle.

  “We’re losing him,” Abigail muttered, almost to herself, “aren’t we?”

  Konri returned with a few pills in his hand.

  “Hard to say,” he said. “She isn’t being sold this year. He didn’t do any permanent damage. We already saw him lose control. This isn’t that.”

  He pried Chloe’s mouth open and popped the pills inside. She jerked back from his fingers, surprised.

  “Drink,” he ordered.

  Chloe hesitated with the pills on her tongue. She had no idea what they were. Konri and Abigail frightened her. She reasoned with herself. Why would they kill her now, when Demetrius undoubtedly knew where she was and who was taking care of her? And what choice did she have anyway? Even if the pills were cyanide, the doctor and the Mistress would have her take them. She took a slow sip of water, her shaking hand betraying her fear.

  Konri fingered her mouth open again and checked to see if she had swallowed the pills.

  “The bruised ribs will prevent any harsh punishment for a few weeks at least,” he said.

  Chloe shivered, trying to calm herself. If he had just killed her, he wouldn’t speak about her future. She was going to be okay. I’m all right, became her new mantra, I’m all right. I’m all right.

  “Punishment?” Abigail said with a bitter laugh. “Oh, but Konri, didn’t you hear what D said? Little Twenty-One’s heart is so very delicate that her causing the death of another slave is punishment enough.”

  Chloe’s chest grew heavy. Demetrius knew her very well. Jason’s death ate her alive. She saw his face every time she closed her eyes. But even if what he had said was the truth, Abigail would never see it as an equal punishment. And it wasn’t. Chloe should have died with Ash…Jason…that night, and she knew Abigail would never let her forget it.

  Chloe found herself trying to escape within like she had when she had first begun training. She tried to find that dark corner of her mind where thoughts never found her. But Abigail approached her again, running a hand through her hair. Her nails brushed Chloe’s scalp a little harder than they should have.

  “Demetrius is so distracted this season,” she said. “I find it hard to believe it’s all because of you.” She traced the contours of Chloe’s face as if she were a sculpture. Chloe flinched despite her best efforts to keep still. The tone of Abigail’s voice was dangerous. “Pretty lips,” she said. “Great tits, but nothing I’d look twice at with his slaves this season. If it weren’t for this special collar, I wouldn’t even notice you in the crowd.”

  Chloe took a risk and met Abigail’s gaze. Those cold eyes were red-rimmed, her face a little puffy. She had been crying for a long time. Chloe couldn’t grasp the emotions swelling in her breast. A part of it was anger. How dare this woman mourn a young man she had stolen away, broken down, and planned to sell to the highest bidder? But Chloe still felt the crushing shame of having disobeyed, having rebelled against her Master and Mistress, and as much as she despised the desire to please that had been beaten into her, it was still there. She let her face fill with her regret so Abigail could see it. Abigail smiled and shook her head.

  “Not enough, my dear,” she whispered. “It’s not enough.”

  The bedroom door opened and Chloe did not have to look over to know who had entered. Abigail dropped her hand and took a step back from her too quickly. Something within her triggered a sick sense of panic. Her entire body tensed so suddenly that her ribs be
came fire. She gasped before she could stop herself.

  “What are you doing in here, Abigail?”

  Master. For an instant she was Twenty-One again. She dropped her gaze to the ground, lifting her arms to her neck, At Attention despite the pain in her side. Demetrius came to her, his boots appearing beside Abigail’s heels. Chloe began to tremble, but her sex bloomed to life at the same time. She struggled against tears, but they came. She felt the same way she had when she had first come here, torn between fear and desire.

  “Relax, D,” said Abigail, her voice returning to the melodic purr it had been earlier at the dinner party. “I was just having a look at the damage.”

  Demetrius was silent. Chloe remained frozen. She wanted to look up, to try to catch a glimpse of Demetrius’ face, but she didn’t dare risk his anger.

  “There’s no disfiguring damage,” said Konri. “Everything visible will fade in a week or so. But some ribs on her left side are bruised. She’ll need to be handled gently for a few weeks.”

  Demetrius shifted and suddenly he was touching her, his waist between her knees. Chloe was overcome with the urge to fall into him, to rest her head against his chest as she had after he had branded her. Yet his long fingers on her ribs made her jump and jerk away, as if her ribs remembered who had bruised them. She whimpered despite her desperate attempt to keep silent. She couldn’t handle these conflicting urges. She would go mad all over again.

  Demetrius caught her and cupped the side of her face. “Sh, sh, sh.”

  He pressed her sore ribs, testing them. She sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. She wanted to look at him and see if he was enjoying her pain. Her stomach turned at the thought, at the memory of actually being content when he had enjoyed her pain. Dieu, had she truly felt that way? Yet despite her disgust, a part of her wished she were still Twenty-One, that she was a possession with no past, no shame, no resistance, and that she lived for the simple expectation of pleasing her Master and nothing more. God, she despised herself.